anniversary ironing meditation

a hearth
within me flickers
its warm wings like
some butterfly of
yellow love polka
dots
on a lavender twilight
sky.

the iron hisses
over shirts, one
two
three.

eyes squint out
the creases;
a finger still throbs
from yesterday's cricket
under the sun;
ears make a symphony
of cacophany - cars
hum waves outside,
lou armstrong drones from
the bedroom and the clouds
forget fingers of rain that now
tap a piano ballad
outside;
tastebuds still lie in a dreamworld
after a romance with
a steamboat;
nostrils breathe in
freshly ironed cotton,
and as feet realise that
carpet fibres can
sing, hands move
like an artist's,
banishing crease after
crease from
this moment.

this must be
what they call

love.

this must be
what they call

bliss.

it has been three
hundred and sixty
five days
of
pure
wonder.


thank
you
j.